


Ducky

by JP (jpgr1963)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Crack, Explicit Language, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:48:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jpgr1963/pseuds/JP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While relaxing on his Scottish farm, Paul thinks of John. </p><p>Dirty and short. There’s sheep.</p><p>Disclaimer: This is pure fiction, I have no idea what really happened, nothing in this story is real, just all make believe, so chillax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ducky

A hand shielding his eyes from the bright sun, Paul McCartney looked out over the rolling green fields of his Scottish farm; as he gazed over his verdant kingdom in the middle of nowhere, he heard the distinct giggles of his young girls playing hide and seek games in the barn behind him. Back at the house, with her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, Linda was baking another pie, her thick ankles swollen from the weight of another Maccabun in the oven. Ah, domestic bliss. The bittersweet stench of freshly cut grass and sheep shit… the leisurely life of a gentleman farmer.

He should be happy. He was happy… when he wasn’t completely miserable. He took another long toke off the joint and exhaled the pungent smoke slowly.

John.

He was gone.

In the States somewhere, Paul remembered through the haze. The smell of pot always reminded him of John. Everything these days reminded him of John.

And then he saw them.

Off in a corner of the meadow, under a tree.

It was cute and innocent and bucolic… the nuzzling and rubbing and nipping, until the randy ram hoisted up his wooly barrel of a body and mounted a blissfully placid ewe. The ram rammed her repeatedly from behind, hard.

Paul’s prick twitched in his tight trousers.

Everyfuckingthing reminded him of John.

“Girls, get back to house. See if your mum needs help in the kitchen!” Not even bothering to turn around, he barked at his children. His raspy voice snagged on the lust in his throat, as his cupped his balls through the fabric. Usually obedient and always nervous when their father used that tone, the girls ran off towards the small cottage.

Paul closed his eyes slowly and then opened his heavy lids. Catching his breath, he strolled up to the wooden fence, his famous round ass wiggling up and down, and slipped out of view behind a massive pile of hay. Two more quick puffs and he ground the roach out into the dirt with his boot.

 _“That’s right, ol’ boy. Fuck her hard.”_ After stroking himself through the cloth, Paul slowly pulled down his zipper and pulled himself out. A wad of spit was hard to produce in his pot-induced dry mouth, but he managed. He soon got his rhythm, vacillating between watching the sheep shagging in the pasture and closing his eyes, remembering a typical night on tour back in the day. Open, shut. Open, shut.

 _“That’s right. Ya got it now. Harder.”_ A drop of sweat pooled on the skin just above Paul’s right eyebrow, as his head fell back against the rough wall of straw. _“Harder, Johnny. Fuck me harder, baby.”_

A few more harsh pumps of his hand, a few more delicious memories of John’s arms grabbing him by the hips from behind, pushing him down hard over the hotel couch arm, pounding his bum deep and raw…

With a rush of exquisite pleasure, Paul exploded sprogspawn all over his hand and groaned muffled obscenities out loud. 

Too loud.

The small flock of sheep all turned and looked at him, limp prick still jerking in hand, sheepishly unimpressed.

He would have easily heard her footsteps if he’d been aware of anything.

“The pie’s ready. Put your dick away, ducky.” Linda snapped and turned away, waddling back to the house, shaking her head.


End file.
